


East Wind

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Older Characters, Oral Sex, Retirement, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>England goes to war, and Watson needs a distraction.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	East Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tweedisgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/gifts).



> tweedisgood gave me a prompt back on my birthday in December: _Retirement/reunion porn on the eve of the Great War... soldiers marching in the streets, people cheering. Watson's not so sure._ Finally, I wrote it.

The East wind that Holmes had foretold had arrived, though the city of London did not appear to recognise its chill.  Declaring war on Germany seemed to be the greatest thing Mother Britain had ever done, and now soldiers were marching in the streets while their faithful citizens cheered them on.  I knew no one would bother to notice two old fogeys in an upper window on Pall Mall, but it gave me pause all the same when my friend tucked himself under my arm to gaze down with me at the festivities below us.

“You’re not enjoying this,” he said softly, his lips against my temple.

I shook my head.  “D’you know,” I said— and ignored his murmured _“Probably,”_ — “that I very seriously considered volunteering?”

He sighed.  “I did,” he replied.  “You stared so hard at that poster last week you nearly set it on fire.”

“I’m much too old,” I said.  “What would they do with me, anyway?”

Holmes pressed a kiss to my hairline.  “You’re still considering it, then.”

“No,” I protested, and then, “Yes.”

“Would it help if I ask you not to?”

“It would,” I said.

“In that case, please don’t.”

It was a simple request, and he said it without looking at me, but I could feel the faint tremor in his left hand.  The tremor had not existed before his two years in America, and now it turned up whenever he was particularly distressed.  I wished with all my heart to know who had given it to him, and whether they were in good enough health that it wouldn’t be unsporting to strike them in the face.  But we didn’t talk about America, of course, and so my violent fantasy went unremarked.

I gave in to the pleasant, forgotten-and-remembered warmth of his body, and turned to hook my other arm around his waist.  He hid his smile in the crook of my neck.

“My dear boy,” he murmured.

“Hardly,” I replied.  He had turned sixty while he’d been abroad, and I sixty-two just after his return.  My hair was white and his was a noble peppered grey; my waistline had expanded and his had, most regrettably, narrowed; he wore spectacles in the privacy of our home in Sussex, though he loathed them.  In London, he held the paper at arms’ length and occasionally let me read a restaurant’s menu aloud.

“You don’t have to be watching this nonsense,” he said.  “There’s a game of whist going on in the card room.”

“You hate whist,” I said, grinning.

“You hate war.”

We stared at one another, unblinking.  His grey eyes were warm with affection.  He rubbed his hand up and down my arm and I found myself leaning into his touch.  I needed a distraction.

“I think I’m ready for a nap,” I said.  

He deflated, rolling his eyes and heaving a great sigh.  “Watson, I know you have embraced this life of ease and leisure with great enthusiasm, but you cannot sleep away every afternoon.”

I pinched him through his waistcoat.  “I wasn’t thinking of that sort of nap,” I said, lowering my voice.  Though we had been physically and romantically involved for nearly thirty years, give or take a few unwelcome breaks, the dear man still needed a seduction laid out in facts.  I put my mouth to his ear and dropped my voice still further.  “I was referring to the variety wherein you join me in the bed and we exhaust the possibilities of illegal carnal practices until the both of us are quite spent.”

His sharp little intake of breath was deeply satisfying.  I pressed a kiss to the spot behind his ear, certain that we were alone in this room, and he fisted his hands in the fabric of my jacket.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “then I suppose you’d better go lie down.”

He was only a few steps behind me the whole way back to our suite.  Mr Mycroft Holmes was no stranger to our situation and had afforded us a pair of rooms more suited to a married couple than two bachelor friends, but such was the nature of his club (of which I never was sure whether we were guests or members).  No one said a word in protest.

I unlocked the door to the suite and Holmes darted a look back at the empty corridor before following me closely in.  I shrugged off my jacket on my way through the little sitting room and had begun to unbutton my waistcoat, when Holmes caught me by the back of said garment and turned me around.  His hands joined mine on my buttons, and after I had sent it in the same direction as the jacket, we cooperated to divest him of his.  Then it was braces, collars, and cuffs; shoes, socks, and trousers.  We were still in our shirtsleeves and drawers when we climbed together onto the wide, solitary bed.

Holmes cupped my face in his hands and smiled at me contemplatively before he leaned down for a proper kiss.  His lips were smooth and warm under my own chapped ones, and he turned my head to this side and that as he kissed me, guiding me into his rhythm.  I held onto his ribs, his hips, sliding my hands ‘round to his arse to pull him against me.  He was already hard in his pants, his prick pressing firm and demanding against my thigh.  He moaned softly into my mouth when I began to rock against him, pressing my leg to his groin.

“John,” he said between kisses, and, though I waited, nothing more.  I took it as a sign, permission perhaps, and with a gentle push sent him tumbling to the bed.  I leaned over him, my knee planted between his parted thighs.  I kissed him again, with my right hand unbuttoning his shirt, and caressed the fine, narrow planes of his chest and stomach.  He arched into me, drawing me close, and kissed my cheek.

I eased myself onto one hip beside him, the good hip, my leg still tangled with his, and rested my hand on his belly below his navel.

“What would you like, my dear?” I asked, brushing my fingers back and forth.

“Just,” he said, lifting his hips a little towards my teasing hand, “just touch me.  For now.”

I slid my palm down and covered the bulge in his drawers.  He bit his lip and gazed up at me, storm-cloud eyes shining.  I kissed his mouth, freed his bitten lip with a swipe of my tongue.  I squeezed him, smiling at the jolt of his hips, and began to massage his erection through the fabric of his pants.  His right hand was on my back, clenching and unclenching in my shirt, and his left hand found its way to my stomach where the shirt was riding up.

We kissed again, sweetly, his lips pliant and eager under mine.  I stroked him with the flat of my hand, cupped his stones in my palm, and thumbed the head of his prick until I could feel him leaking.  Then I undid the tie on his drawers with one firm tug and slipped my hand inside to caress his bare skin.

“Oh,” he breathed, and I distanced myself from our kiss somewhat to meet his eyes again.  He smiled, hazy.  “You’re too close.”

I leaned back further, biting back a grin.

“Much better,” he said, and flexed his hips up into my grip.  His cockhead was slipping wetly beneath my fingers, and every slow stroke made him shiver.  “Getting old is bollocks, John.”

“It certainly is,” I agreed.  I could think of worse things, though, than being allowed to do it with him.

He let go of the back of my shirt and carded his fingers through my hair.  Then he dragged me back down for another kiss, this time deeper, harder, more wanting.  I returned his ardor, as if I could consume him, and the heat between us began to build.

“Can I have your mouth?” he asked suddenly, grabbing my wrist and bringing me to a halt.  “Please?”

I wiggled my hand out of his grip and said, “Yes, darling,” as I opened his drawers and pushed myself to my knees.  His prick stood stiffly away from his belly, and I had only to dip my chin to take him between my lips.  He sighed deeply, the hand in my hair tightening.  I eased myself lower until my nose brushed his belly and his cock touched the back of my throat, and then pulled away to rub my tongue across his tip.

“Bloody hell,” Holmes said to the ceiling.  “You gorgeous man.”

I squeezed his hips, acknowledging the compliment, and did my best to earn it.  I worked my mouth up and down his length until my neck ached, and then I rested on my elbows and relaxed my throat, so that he could thrust to his heart’s content.  I massaged his thighs and abdomen, rubbing my thumbs up and down his smoothly flexing muscles, and marvelled at the power still contained in his body.  He was beginning to squirm, his movements growing erratic, and so I took him in hand and began to frig him as I teased his cockhead with my tongue.

Holmes left hand joined his right on the back of my head, and I felt his legs and belly growing taut as he dug his heels into the bed on either side of my ribs.  He was moaning through his teeth, trying to keep quiet, and then he said sharply, “John!” in warning.

I tightened my grip on him, increased my speed, and was rewarded with a curse and a gasp, and then the thick, hot flood of his seed.  I held still, eyes closed, reading the tremors in his body and working him through his climax with the ease of practice.  He said my name again, like a benediction, and subsided with a sigh.

Swallowing with as much grace as a man can, I lifted my eyes to his and smiled.  He rubbed his thumb over my lower lip, returning the smile.

“Oh, you wicked fellow,” he said fondly, his voice blurry with sated desire.  “What would you have of me, now?”

“Whatever you will allow me,” I said, and eased myself back up to the pillows beside him.  He rolled onto his side, his back to me, and pulled me into position behind him so that I lay half underneath him with his head on my shoulder and his leg flung between mine.  He fumbled for the tie of my drawers and undid it, reaching inside to pull out my cock.

I pressed a kiss to the soft place behind his ear.  In this position I could hold him easily in my arms, and he could touch me from an angle he might touch himself.  He rolled his head back, nestling his temple against my cheek, and began to stroke me gently, teasing me.  The wave of arousal that came from seeing, feeling, and tasting him reach his peak had ebbed, leaving me with a newly building desire.

For a while that was enough, and I nuzzled and kissed his neck, biting down gently and soothing with my tongue, while he stroked and fondled me in turn.  I rocked against him slowly, unable to still my eager hips.

Abruptly, he let go and pulled away, leaving me aching.  He leaned well across the bed to the table that stood beside it, and returned with the embarrassingly obvious jar of petroleum jelly that had stood there.

Holmes patted me on the leg and shucked his drawers with surprising dexterity.  Then he was drawing me against him again with one hand, while simultaneously smearing a generous helping from the jar between his thighs.

With hardly any preamble my prick slid smoothly between his legs, and I muffled a moan against the back of his neck.  He squeezed his thighs together.  I could not help moving, pushing my cock over and over into that warm, slick place.  Holmes clutched at my hip, urging me on.

I began to fuck him more vigorously, the wet sound of out bodies coming together and the harshness of Holmes's breathing sending me into a frenzy of desire.  His fingers were tight on my leg, digging into the tender flesh of my thigh.  The angle was not ideal though, and I could feel myself becoming frustrated, stimulated to the edge of satisfaction but unable to reach it.

"Roll on your front," I said, trembling as I pulled away.  My cock looked obscene, huge and hard and gleaming with Vaseline.

Holmes gave a moan and rolled into his belly, his legs stretched out and still held tightly together.  I climbed atop him, straddling him, and slid my cock between his thighs once more, trapping his knees with mine and keeping the passage tight.  He clutched at the blankets as I began to thrust, bracing my hands on his shoulder blades.

I was near my end now, and the change in position made all the difference.  I rocked my hips in quick, short motions, rubbing myself off against him, and felt myself begin to falter.

"Sherlock," I gasped.

"Come on, old boy," he replied, panting open-mouthed into the pillows.  "Off you go."

The wave inside me crested, and I moaned aloud as I reached my peak, spilling wetly between Holmes's thighs. I rocked slowly, drawing it out, my back arched luxuriously and my fingers pressed firmly into the muscles of Holmes's back. He groaned, stretching, and I folded myself down along his spine until I could press kisses to his shoulders.

He allowed this for a few moments, and then wriggled himself out from underneath me. I rolled to the side, limp and useless after my orgasm. Holmes sat up and wrinkled his nose at the mess on his skin and the bed, and got up to pad across the room for a flannel. I wrestled myself out of shirt and drawers while he was gone, and was ready with open arms and warm blankets when he returned. He sighed and crawled in to join me.

My body was tingling still with latent pleasure, and Holmes's body against mine only intensified this sensation. Once, he might have objected to a prolonged cuddle after a bout of moderately athletic sex, but now he pressed himself into my embrace. I closed my eyes and breathed in his warm, familiar smell.

“John,” Holmes said, catching me before I had drifted too far.

“Hm?”

“I imagine you see yourself on the battlefield,” he said softly, carding his fingers idly through my hair.

I shook my head.  It wasn’t entirely true.  I imagined the battlefield of my youth, the sand and sun, but I knew it was madness.  I was too old, for one, and I didn’t want to go back there, for another.

He went on, “But the hospitals on the home front would be eager to have you.”  I felt him sigh.  “I daresay I shall be needed here in London.”

“Intelligence work,” I said.  He hummed an agreement.  “If I volunteer, I could be sent anywhere.”

“I know.”  He kissed my face, my closed eyelids, my mouth.  “I’m feeling very selfish at the moment,” he whispered.  “The rational part of me says the two of us would be very useful in service to our country, but--” and here he kissed me again, hesitating-- “but the rest of me wants to tell the country to bugger off and leave us alone.  I want to go home, and never be out of your sight more than an hour, and never go a night without you beside me.”

His unusual admission of affection made me open my eyes, confused.  “Holmes,” I said, “what is this about?”

“Getting old is bollocks,” he said again, burying his face in my neck.  Never mind, I had seen the heartache in his eyes.  “This is not the distraction I meant it to be,” he mumbled.

“Hush,” I said, curling my arms around him and pressing kisses into his hair.  “I’ve put up with worse disappointment from you.”

He pinched me hard in the side, but his snort of laughter gave him away.  He nibbled at my collarbone for a moment, and then said, “You are a dreadful man.”

“And you are a shockingly sentimental one,” I replied.

“Listen,” he said seriously, pulling back once more to look at me.  “We might endure some time apart.  Mycroft has already mentioned it to me.  And you-- I cannot even imagine what it would be like to keep you from service to your country, you damned patriotic git.  I only want you to know that if I had my way, in a perfect world, none of it would be necessary, and we could die together in Sussex of eating too much honey.”

I cupped his cheek, unable to keep from smiling.  “I should like very much to live in that world.”

"I swear I will do everything in my power to keep this war as brief as possible," he said.

"If there's a man who can do it," I said, "it'd be you or your brother."

His smile was rather more sardonic than my own. "And I shall have you assigned to a London hospital."

"As a veteran of a previous war, I expect nothing but the most preferential treatment."

"It'll be all right, Watson," Holmes said, curling himself once more against my chest. His breath was warm against my collarbone, and he patted my arm with a faintly shaking hand. "You'll see."


End file.
